Forgetting all about the check, she stared at the illuminated screen. Then abruptly, before she could change her mind, she tapped it.

Texts first. There were fewer of these than emails. Plus, they seemed safer, since the only people who had her cell number were friends, family, and acquaintances—in other words, no one who wanted her jailed or humiliated.

The messages came from familiar people who were checking in. That’s what most of them actually wrote, a nervous “just checking in,” as if Maggie were a creepy motel in a horror flick, the kind of place where a guest had to glance continually over her shoulder, shower with the curtain parted, and sleep lightly, if at all. I’ve become the setting of a scary movie. Great.

She didn’t answer the texts. Mom was right. Maggie did want to cut herself off. What happened hadn’t just ruined her freshman year of college; it had sabotaged everything that came before it. It was like a black sweater shoved into the washing machine with the whites. The innocuous, happy, sweet memories were now tainted, sullied, grayed.

Shayna, her friend since kindergarten, and Jen, her high school pal—Maggie was close to these two … or had been, at one time. She’d never collected a ton of friends. But there were also texts from Rhea, the girl she’d worked on her Greek civilization project with last year; and Kim, Doreen, and Tara, college freshmen she’d been getting to know. And, of course, Mom and Dad. Maybe a dozen people total, just checking in. Nothing from Sara Wood.

Maggie got out of her messages and frowned absently at the blue sky framed by the windows. I’ll write back to them later. Eventually.

She dried her sweating palms on her hoodie and then, holding her breath, checked her emails … hundreds and hundreds of unread emails. After scrolling all the way down to the oldest ones, she began deleting. The majority she deleted without reading, but some she read. There was a nice email from Dr. Warner, her Chaucer professor, another sweet one from Kendra, the girl she’d sat next to in statistics. Maggie would have to write back to them, too. At some point.

Again, nothing from Sara Wood. But business advertisements, college reminders, and absolutely anything from a stranger with a male name—automatically deemed unreadable. Delete, delete, delete.

She opened a few from women and then wished she hadn’t. The fourth one left her trembling and clenching her jaw. After that, she erred on the side of caution and deleted anything from a stranger. I know better, she thought, angry and impatient with herself. Women didn’t always have other women’s backs. Sara Wood had been the first to teach her that. Maggie should have learned by now.